Slumgullion

It is still dark out the window, though there is a hint of light. The apple tree limbs are subtle leafless streaks and beyond it the walk is a vague wash of grey. No birds. No rain.

In our house, slumgullion is a mix of bacon bits, fried potatoes, and onions, cooked together in eggs. Sort of a jumbled together mess of scrambled eggs and leftovers, its not pretty. It is however strangely satisfying, particularly with a splash of hot sauce. I don’t make it often. It’s one of those dishes I make to use up leftovers. (I truly am a child of depression era parents. I save bacon grease in a jar in the refrigerator, use up leftover meat to make hash. I save bones in the freezer to make stock and soup. Admittedly though, at 71, I find it hard to think of myself as a child of anything.)

I bring this up because I have a scattering of ideas for writing, many in nearly completed essays, that I cannot seem to complete. I scan these pieces often, make a few changes, but just can’t find the flow I’m looking for to complete them. Normally, I work my thoughts through as I write but, for whatever reason, these ideas won’t gel for me. I suspect that I need to sort through them once again and let some of them go. Find resolution for the rest. And then, let them go also. It’s the Zen way.

•  I’ve been thinking about the special connection between small children and old people. I say old people though I am sure that the term is insensitive and therefore politically incorrect. “Seniors” is the current gentle term for people who’ve beat the odds and outlasted most of their friends. I don’t mind being called old, though I prefer the term elder, as it suggests a smattering of wisdom and knowledge gained through years of living. In any case, the point is that the two opposite ends of the age spectrum have much in common. Aside from the fact that both have bodies difficult to control, little hair and a unpredictable bowel activity, both ages face new, unguided experiences. Beginning a life is just as uncertain and uncharted as ending one. Both are terrifying.
• I’ve been thinking about being alive while I’m alive. Being aware and appreciative. Being thankful or at least glad. It is not easy. It’s hard work and it seems to get harder to just be. Old age seems to work paradoxically. At a time in life when one is supposed to take it easy, our bodies decide to make nothing easy. A walk around the block on a sunny day is a trek with a walker and oxygen tank. The same is true of a trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I’ve yet to get used to the sudden jerks on the hose attached to my face when I wander too far from my tank. Heaven help me if I catch my oxygen hose in the door of the oven.
• I feel embarrassed and whiny when I write about my physical problems. I suppose I should forget about the struggles of hauling around a cart and tank, switching lines so I have oxygen in the shower, watching Lydia struggle to get my cart into the car because I cannot. I don’t want to be felt sorry for, but I do want to express the frustration of a failing body. I could just ‘buck up’ and ignore the whole thing but to do that is to ignore the reality of my current life. I’ve filtered this part of my life from my writing to this point and it rattled around in my brain. It did not feel honest to ignore it. It felt unZen: not here and not present. So, without looking for pity, I want to share my experiences in this, new for me, uncharted territory. I commit myself to acknowledging and writing about life with a tank, how, like a little boy with his wagon, I haul this thing around with me everywhere I go. Maybe I’ll get a red balloon to fly from it when I go out and about.

So, there it is, the few bits blocking the flow.

Blessings.

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